


put your hand between an aching head and an aching world

by dreadedlaramie



Series: rewrites and revisits [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Woundplay, ~Feelings~
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:22:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6908860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadedlaramie/pseuds/dreadedlaramie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time, Dean hands Cas the knife from his belt and says “<i>go to town</i>”; the first time, Cas’ hands shake in a way that has nothing to do with any chemical or withdrawal; the first time it doesn’t have much to do with either of them, specifically.<br/>The first time, Sam has just said “<i>yes</i>” (or that’s the news from what is left of Detroit, anyway).</p>
            </blockquote>





	put your hand between an aching head and an aching world

**Author's Note:**

> this is a sort-of rewrite of [i love everything about you that hurts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4449707), because i needed more endverse knifeplay, as did we all.

The first time, Dean hands Cas the knife from his belt and says “ _ go to town _ ”; the first time, Cas’ hands shake in a way that has nothing to do with any chemical or withdrawal; the first time it doesn’t have much to do with either of them, specifically.

The first time, Sam has just said “ _ yes _ ” (or that’s the news from what is left of Detroit, anyway).

 

It doesn’t hurt to see Dean like this, not anymore, not really, not since-- backdate it to:

“Christ, Cas, stop  _ shaking _ ; nothing is going to happen; here, take this.”

“What is it?”

“It’ll take the edge off.”

and Cas does take it and it  _ does _ take the edge off, and he’s soft and fuzzed when they shoot three kids (who are  _ probably _ Croats, but no one is too sure).

( _ There’s the slow-dawning realization that life now is all edges, and if he could just-- _ )

 

One day, Chuck says some little thing,  _ once _ , about something about non-renewable resources, something about how quickly Cas goes through condoms, something about how if  _ possibly _ ,--

and Dean makes a sound that’s a laugh if you don’t know any better (a warning, if you do) and grabs a fifth of it-doesn’t-matter from their supply run off the table in front of him (that, at least, is renewable, sort of, if they manage to grow the corn, or rye, or wheat or-- what the fuck ever, Cas can’t remember now, if he ever even knew). Dean is a man of a lot fewer words now.

Cas laughs like he understands what Dean means, sharp and unfunny and borderline-hysteric, but he doesn’t quite. Chuck doesn’t say anything about it after that.

(What no one will say about it is that there’s a conversation here about Cas and resources and  _ usefulness _ .)

 

The first time Cas’ hands shake.

The first time, Cas thinks he see god (he doesn’t think in divine capitals anymore) in the bright, thin lines he trails across Dean’s skin. Now, of course, he knows better, that he just sees Dean (he might still work a bit in divine capitals).

The first time, Dean has to stop him, grabs his wrist hard enough that the bones creak a bit, tells him to do it like he means it-- and it’s a command as much as any order he’s given in the field or at home (except his tone is breathy dark-eyed wanting).

 

This isn’t the first time.

It feels like the last time (it always does anymore).

This is not the first time, and Cas’ hands don’t shake at all, perfect steady calm doesn’t waver.

Today, Cas traces the neat and precise lines of an Enochian prayer, and it hurts like nostalgia ( _ home sadness _ , and god, doesn’t that sound about right, doesn’t that hurt about right).

It’s a prayer of rejoicing, the same one he etched into the marrow of Dean’s now-rebuilt bones all those years ago, and he traces over every angle and curve again again again-- it should scar, should stay for a long while.

What it is that he’s rejoicing, he’s not sure.

 

Risa brings it up,  _ once _ , with all the enthusiasm of someone picked by lot-- she says something about “resources” and says something about “usefulness”-- she even has the audacity to bring up Cas’ broken foot from a few weeks ago, how he used up an addict’s amount of Vicodin, because that’s what he  _ is _ and I know you know what’s best Dean but are we really-- if he could just--

Dean listens calmly (something of a rarity anymore), then says “If Cas goes, I go.”

And that’s the end of that, isn’t it.

 

“I want to slit you open and climb inside, sometimes,” Cas says, casually, pressing the tip of the blade against Dean’s stomach. “Choke on your guts, eat you whole.”

Dean’s breath quickens in a way that isn’t quite fear (isn’t quite not).

Cas presses harder, a hint of blood blooming under the knife point. “Feel your heart beating desperate in my hands. Or is that too romantic of me?” (echoes of a fight they’ve never had)

Cas is of course high as fuck, because when  _ isn’t _ he anymore, but he means what he says, and that scares Dean for all the wrong reasons. He’d rather be gutted.

“Cas,  _ please _ ,” Dean says, and he sounds more broken than he means to.

“Please what?” Cas responds, because that’s just the kind of mood he’s in tonight, that asshole. Dean doesn’t ask much, anymore, just wants and takes— except here.

Dean pauses a long time, then finally just— “please” again, quieter and simpler, a concession and an apology and an answer all at once, and Cas obliges (always does).

 

There are rumors about rough scars and sloppy stitches, and they’re enough to make everyone on edge around Cas, just a little, just enough. If he notices, he doesn’t act like it, seems not to care— it’s hard to tell.

No one knows  _ exactly _ but they know enough, know enough to whisper and murmur— know better than to say anything directly.

Croatoan is bloodborne, and there are  _ precautions _ and  _ safeguards _ and  _ rules _ — and slicing someone open and fucking them with their blood on your hands and lips… well.

 

Cas trails the knife up from the bone of Dean’s hip to his opposite shoulder, a thin red line across white scar tissue and tan skin— light, nothing, a scratch. Dean breathes in sharp anyway, but opens his mouth as if to protest how easy Cas is going on him tonight, and--

Cas draws the knife back down across the meat of Dean’s chest, serrations cutting into skin and muscle and flesh and dragging. He digs in, and in, and in, until there’s a five-inch gash that gaps every time Dean moves (and he  _ is  _ moving, arching up and practically writhing under the blade). It’s deep, deeper than any of the other cuts Cas has inflicted. Deep enough that when Cas shoves his tongue inside, the tip barely scrapes the bottom. Dean grabs a fistful of Cas’ hair at that, but instead of shoving him away just pulls him closer.

It hurts, of course it fucking  _ hurts _ — muscle screaming out raw at the intrusion and the cut straining against its edges every time Cas moves his tongue, side to side quick or lapping slowly— and Dean’s grip in Cas’ hair is white-knuckle.

Cas pulls away eventually, and Dean lets him, reluctant. A past Dean might have cracked a crude joke about Cas’ bloodied face, but this Dean doesn’t say anything. His eyes are full and bright like something ignited inside him, and Cas feels for a moment like he never lost his grace or his faith or his way. It won’t last (it never does).

He kisses Dean and it’s sweet in a way it never is.

 

Cas wonders sometimes where the line is, between too much and just enough, and what would even happen if he ever crossed it.

Cas wants to cut down to bone, through it, peel back Dean’s skin layer by aching layer, take him apart just like he put him back together all those years ago.

He thinks Dean might let him, and it should terrify him.

It doesn’t.

 

Cas doesn’t think he’ll ever be over the way skin bruises and breaks under teeth, doesn’t think he wants to be.

He has Dean’s windpipe between his lips, and he bites gently oh so gently but enough to feel the cartilage shift and click. Dean groans and Cas feels it reverberate. He thinks for a moment about ripping Dean’s throat out.

Cas moves, sucks bruises into the side of Dean’s neck, bites to draw blood— then kisses his way slowly down Dean’s cut-up chest, the salt-sweat taste familiar against his tongue.

Dean shifts impatiently, because what’s next is Cas inside him, is Cas brutal and gripping bruises into his hips, is penance and absolution and respite— some nights he begs (the worse nights).

 

In the quiet after, Cas cleans Dean up, cut by cut— and this is as much a part of it as the blade is. Dean sighs like he’s been holding his breath for years.

Cas isn’t much good at stitches, even with all the practice, but he manages well enough, well enough to let his mind wander.

If he isn’t careful, he’ll remember how it used to be, before Croatoan, before Chitaqua, before every “last night on earth”— before Detroit.

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact-- did you know that the verb for performing cunnilingus is "to cunnilingue", which i looked up specifically for this fic but didn't use


End file.
